


A Candle Knows

by Masked_Man_2



Category: A Knight's Tale (2001)
Genre: Fantasy, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-12 05:50:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2098023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Masked_Man_2/pseuds/Masked_Man_2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It knows, deep in its non-mind, that its man has magic hands. They are so beautiful, his hands: so long and slender and pale, and they give it fire every night, and they do not let it die...</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Candle Knows

**Author's Note:**

> This is written from the candle's point of view, so...the narration is justifiably...odd.

A candle is created to serve. To alight hope in dark places, burning short and bright. To act as a beacon, a static, fiery guide to those whose ambitious minds run wild by night. To make love, in its gentle way, to fire, its demonic paramour; fire that loves so passionately that the candle’s wax body is melted to a puddle of molten tears by the consuming heat. To burn, and die, and burn again.

 

A candle has no name, no thoughts. No mind of its own. But it does have eyes: eyes of flame and wax that see all that its light illuminates. If it could speak, it could tell a thousand tales of a thousand places, people, and events. It could regale its listeners with accounts of bloodthirsty kings poring over maps, or of young children daring to play past their bedtimes. It could tell of laboring students, frightened dreamers, time-lost artists, and night-locked families.

 

If a candle could speak, might it not ask to never be burned, for fear of its death? If it could wish, might it not wish for those who abuse its light to melt in its stead? If it could feel, might it not hold poisonous grudges against those that carelessly allow it to fall to oil? Might it not?

 

But who could assume that hatred would be its sentiment? It could very well feel gratitude, wanting to serve to the best of its ability and feeling only a fleeting distress at its demise. It might even love the humans that use it, and beg for their touches that reunite it with its fire.

 

X X X 

 

It is when a candle is apart from its fire that such thoughtless introspection occupies its energies. Tucked snugly into a pocket of the long coat it has seen so often recently, it bounces contently to the rhythmic beats of the man’s loping gait. 

 

This is the man it watches every night. He is a strange one, as far as humans go; he wears and casts away different personas as if they were just pieces of clothing. By day, he is loud and cheerful and restless, like a bright, rich flame. It can feel all his movement in its wax bones, can feel its wick stirring from the vibrations of his ever-flowing words.

 

By night, though, he is silent and still, like a flame extinguished. It does not feel him by night, for it is made to rest on the solid rigidity of a table, or the damp soil of firm earth. No, by night it sees its man, and watches him in shadow, waiting until he touches burning match to wick and sets its soul on fire.

 

It knows, deep in its non-mind, that its man has magic hands. They are so beautiful, his hands: so long and slender and pale, and they give it fire every night, and they do not let it die.

 

X X X 

 

Yes, the fire. Its man gives it fire, and plunges it into the depths of passion and the heights of ecstasy, and for that, it...loves him. It is that love that lets it watch its man even in the midst of its amorous pleasure. He is always sitting at night, in an odd, hunched-over position that makes his lanky form seem even more awkward than usual. There are always thick sheets of parchment on his table or his lap, and he always clutches a pen in his magic hand. The pen he moves over the sheets with graceful strokes, leaving a trail of intricate symbols drawn with liquid ash.

 

Its non-mind can always tell what is beautiful and what is not. Fire is beautiful, ash is not. Its man is beautiful like fire; there is no ash in him. The light from the flame glints off his short golden hair, and he glows, like the angels it has heard so much about. His eyes are blue like the sky, but they are always hidden behind lowered lids, and his pale brows and lashes cast eerie shadows that make him seem strangely young and remote. His pink lips are always parted slightly, and they are the only parts of his face that move, forming silent words faster than his pen can follow.

 

X X X 

 

‘Tis rare indeed when its man keeps it in repose for a whole night, and rare still when it is made to endure several nights of dormancy. It...cherishes the feeling of watching its man and loving its fire, and it despises its blindness when it is forgotten, alone and cold, in its man’s coat pocket. It can still feel him, but he is yet someone else when he does not sit and weave magic from his liquid ash.

 

This man does not talk or laugh or make magic. This man shivers and thrashes and moans and weeps, like he is plagued by demons it has only heard about in passing. Often it feels an unnatural damp heat in the place of the usual gentle warmth of his body, and when his convulsive movement ousts it from his coat, it sees sweat and tears mingling ominously on his fire-red face. 

It is much more...frightening when he stops moving. He will grow as silent and still and Death, and it hates its feeling of helplessness when he does, for it cannot rush to his side and help him... 

 

...but its man is strong, and his days of agony are few and far between. It can usually tell when its man will suffer at night, for he is always pale and quiet days before, and he does not recover his vigor for days after. Still, he always comes back, and then it rejoices, for it knows it will be united with its fire and its man’s magic once more. 

 

X X X 

 

Its man never pays time any heed when he is weaving his spells, and in that he is unlike any human it has ever seen. It, of course, has no notion of time, only of light and dark, or sleep and love. So it...happily lets its fire consume it as its man works, but eventually, his pen will always start to slip from his fingers, and his head will start to droop, and his eyes will fall closed before opening again with a snap. Bless him, he will always try to keep his symbols flowing, but he inevitably falters, and finally he will put down his pen, blow out its fire, and lower his head onto his arms, moving nary an inch until the sun illuminates him come dawn.

 

It is always...sad when that happens, for it is cut off from its fire so abruptly, and the lingering heat of love fades quickly. And it wishes that its man was less human than he is, so it could watch him and love its fire all night long.

 

Yet...its love for him does not fade when he traps it in solitude, so it continues to watch him, despite the fact that its vision is dim without its fire. His beautiful human face is too often obscured by his arms, but he always seems peaceful; the demons that sometimes plague him couldn’t be farther away.

 

X X X 

 

It welcomes the morning’s light, because its man will always stir when the glorious rays of dawn strike him. He gets up stiffly, stretching to rid himself of the pain of his awkward respite. Then he turns, rolls up his parchments, and places them into his coat. He takes it next, and always runs a gentle finger down the length of its wax form before placing it in his pocket for its own sleep.

The darkness of the pocket renders it blind, but it can feel its man moving about, and it can feel the last vestiges of his feather-light caress for the rest of the day. That keeps it content, until the night comes once more and it can lose itself in the pleasure of magic and fire for one more burning lifetime.


End file.
